


incomplete fugue (bar 75)

by lejf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lejf/pseuds/lejf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean's car breaks down in fucking nowhere, Canada, he stops in a small town for repairs. There, he meets a man he swears he's never met before — but that can't be right, can it? </p><p>Maybe it can. </p><p>Dean's only staying for a night anyway, so it can't be anything more than a one night stand, no matter what his heart tries to tell him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

An hour and a half into the drive, the shit-stained car they’d assigned him started to make noises of protest. First there was a groan of metal from the back, then something began to rattle with each bump along the untravelled road — which, for the record, meant _every fuckin’ second,_ — and then Dean started to suspect that the car was _literally_ _falling apart_ and spewing its cogs and springs onto the road. Like he was rolling in a rapidly-dwindling ball of yarn, the end had come loose so the whole thing was beginning to unspool as it bounced down the asphalt.

So Dean, in complete contrary to the ball of yarn metaphor, pressed the accelerator down harder as if he could outrun the timer on the stupid rusty tin can. The goddamned Canadians. If they hadn’t been wrangling some sort of supernatural outbreak and weren’t hard-pressed for budget, he’d take this as some sort of insult. In hunting circles, Dean Winchester was _known_ for his Impala, so this… this wasn’t even sub-par! This was some _bottom of the barrel_ muck. Yeah, call one of America’s best hunters and then stick him in this trash.

He still had a good hundred miles to go in the middle of rural nowhere before he’d reach the Dwayyo killings. That’s right. Dwayyo. You’d think something with such a ridiculous name would only come out of, like, the mouths of five year olds, but these Dwayyo had eviscerated an entire settlement somewhere in the Canadian wilderness — a settlement he might not even _get to,_ at this rate. He’d been working another hunt in New Zealand (an American monster had miraculously survived a drift all across the Pacific) and had been queued up for this Canadian request right after, which meant, you know. Fly in. No time for the Impala. Take the shit this other country’s hunting council’s given you. Trade it off at the nearest other town, run the risk of offending their delicate sensibilities.

The landscape that stretched around him was painted in greens and yellowing edges. Trees rose in seas, fastidiously detailed, every branch and leaf casting its own shadow and reflecting its own light while mountains were a perpetual reminder, snow-topped peaks and rocky crags heavy-set against the blue. To his right, the trees in their waves dipped to open up in a vista of a spanning lake. He caught a flash of hooves, antlers, birds taking flight, water splashing up in white, before the tide closed up once more and there was the green, the dark road, and the distant sky.

His map was scrunched up by his leg. He’d marked out the roads, and while they’d indicated no sort of pit stop was near, he’d been following glimpses of power lines for a while now. They ran alongside the trees, weaving in and out of the deep forest leaves. The map was probably outdated — _thanks, Canada_ — and Dean was willing to bet some sort of small town was near. He’d get the car fixed up and leave, no dawdling. Still. He reached for his radio. Had to call it in to HQ.

“This is Dean.” Static sputtered back at him. “Would like to inform you that my piece of shit car is breaking down in the middle of nowhere. I’ll need to stop for repairs.”

The white noise leered at him for good few seconds until his father’s voice came crackling from the speakers. “Copy. Take the time you need, Dean.” If the Canadians have a problem with that, they can shove it up their own asses, went unsaid.

For a moment, his fingers ran over the symbols etched in the plastic — they were for extending range. Signal was starting to break up real bad, too. Only half an hour back John Winchester’s voice had been clear as day. “Signal’s running low,” Dean said, eyes still on the road, other hand propped up on the wheel. “Don’t freak out if I drop off the radar.”

“We won’t,” his father replied gruffly, voice further gravelled by the growing static.

Dean tucked the radio away and turned his focus back to the drive. “We” meant Mary was with him. No surprises there. Mary and John made a fantastic pair, and their effectiveness meant the two Winchesters and their only son were famous in the hunting world. Didn’t mean the _public_ knew their names and faces, though. That’d be a little dangerous. Any demon’d be able to get its hands on your details, and imagine trying to be any sort of stealthy if people recognised you as soon as you rolled into town.

The people knew about monsters, all right, the monsters from the myths. And, fair’s fair, it was only fitting that the people who hunted them were just as myth-like. Hunters. Some elite force who worked never for the fame, but for keeping the people safe.

And here he was, driving into Canada because a Dwayyo — which was American, and therefore under their jurisdiction — was going rampant. He couldn’t say he hated the lifestyle. He was born and raised to to this, and sure, he couldn’t keep close friends or girlfriends who weren’t part of the hunting circles, but you couldn’t miss what you’d never had, right?

Dean learnt that this was a lie precisely two minutes later.

Because he’d never ‘had’ a suddenly-appearing _deer_ , but he missed it, and missed it _wide._

He jerked the wheel and the car went careening and screeching across the road, tires chewing thick black marks as the world lurched and he caught a flash of its huge startled eyes before suddenly undergrowth was tearing and everything was enveloped in green and—

—black.

  


First thing he did when he woke was swear up a storm.

Fucking _Canada._ Fucking deer. Fucking wilderness where animals just go bounding outta trees _right onto the road._ God _damn_ it. He tried the engine: It spluttered weakly and fell silent. The noise settled around him, trees perpetually sighing, birds calling, distant rushing water, twigs scraping along the roof… he was still in the middle of fucking nowhere, but now also in a _broken_ tin can.

Well, no use sitting around. He wrestled with his seatbelt, snatched up the radio, and tried to climb out of the seat while his head whirled. A touch to his temple came away wet.

Branches and leaves swallowed the car, pressing insistently against the glass. The entire vehicle was on a slight angle; driver’s door got jammed against the damp earth and a wayward tree trunk, so Dean went climbing onto the passenger’s side to free himself.

The taste of the air and faintest hint of cold told him evening was a good few hours away. Fuck. First things first: wrap up his head. Then decide if he was gonna walk to whatever town might or might not be nearby and get help for this traitorous car. Most of his gear was in the back seat, thankfully not the boot, so he slid in, zipped open the duffel and wound a bandage tightly around where he could feel blood matting his hair. To tell the truth, at that point his mind was already made up. He grabbed a torch between his teeth, a couple of guns, closed up the duffel and was hauling it out after him in no time. No way was he sitting all cosy through the night when he had a job to get to and people were dying. No way was he spending more time in this stupid country than he had to, either.  

To survey: the car had skidded into a ditch. The deer was nowhere to be seen — at least he hadn’t hit it — and some of his blood was smeared over the wheel. Shit. He couldn’t leave that there for any creature to get a whiff of or demon to use. He climbed back in, wiped it up with a spare shirt, kicked the door shut angrily, then set out on his not-so-merry way. At least it wasn’t the Impala _now_. If his Baby got into trouble like this, he’d weep.

He fumbled with the radio, but all that came across was static.

Great. Just. Really great.

Clouds swept by in an ever-flowing tide, the wind took its damn well time, sailing lazily as the night floated after it. Dean watched as the colours above him morphed in ambiguous swirls. From the clarity of a basin of clear water, in dripped the warmth of sunshine that set the surface aflame. It burned like that for a long while as he walked, duffel swaying by his side, then the fire retreated and all that was left was black and white ash. He considered taking out the torch then, but the road was solid under his feet and the light would only be a giveaway.

‘Sides, the sky out where there was no air pollution was fucking bright _._

The lazy wind took on a chill edge and grew hooks. Dean was just about to put the duffel down and pull out another jacket when he caught sight of distant lights. They were clustered further down the road, glowing yellow. He must’ve missed a road sign in the dark, but damn finally _._ The town.

The lights grew larger and brighter while the trees around him fell away to grassland and pasture. Against the universe, sharp shadowed peaks rose like cliff faces, stars glittering around them. The brightness was reflected below; the town was nestled at the base of the mountain.

Dean passed by a few farmhouses in their fields and walked until his face was numb but he could make out the shapes of individual houses and noise was carried to him on the wind. He could’ve whooped. He wasn’t gonna have to walk through the night and the cold, and he was pretty sure at this point it wasn’t an elaborate illusion.

Once he stepped foot onto the streets, he let himself relax. No more... worrying about getting jumped by bears or anything. He readjusted the bag on his shoulder, eyes searching the signs outside the buildings. Post office, hairdresser, yeah yeah. All very typical. But _that_ down the street — The Roadhouse? — was what he was looking for, its windows gently glowing and inviting. And right next to it was the jackpot. Singer’s garage.

Well, inn first, garage next morning.

The door swung open to wash him in rich yellow and warmth, the thick smell of hearth. It was dimly lit, lights on behind the counter, a woman serving two people in travelling cloaks at the bar, another person asleep in front of the fire, and another man wiping down tables. The whole place was shadows and low lights, made it cosy and intimate or something.

The woman pouring drinks looked up as he entered; her eyes lingered a touch too long, but that might’ve been because he had dried blood in his hair and a whole bag on his side. He slid onto one of the stools, let the duffel sit on the seat next to him and kept a careful hand on it. Nobody was going get a glimpse inside, let alone steal the damn thing. It was warded to high hell, but, you know. Could never be too safe.

By the fire, the man was roused from his doze by the man who’d been wiping down the tables. Dean watched as the previously sleeping traveller stood, stretching his weary bones, and ambled for the stairs by the counter that led to the upper floors. Then the other man gave the flames a stir with a fire poker, and when he straightened and turned—

Dean’s attention locked onto him like sniper scope.

His face was _kissed_ by the firelight: it smoothed around his skin and illuminated the curve of his cheekbones. There was an undeniable potential for impishness to his face; in the sharp set of his jaw; in his eyes that promised they weren’t just looking, but _seeing_ what was really there, and they saw Dean, all right, and Dean froze under the weight of those eyes.

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, light licking the curls of his hair, as though _Dean_ was the mystery, as though his sight hadn’t already flayed Dean raw and to the bone.

“Hey, I’m Ellen,” a voice broke in, “you here for something?”

Dean spun around to the innkeep who was tap-tapping her fingers against the counter. A sceptical smile touched her lips.

“Or just here to oogle?”

Dean Winchester didn’t _oogle,_ damnit. He was the one who _got_ oogled. In every town he stopped by, there were always ladies who propositioned him, or whose eyes followed his every move. He played them like fiddles. He didn’t — _definitely_ didn’t — freeze when the hottest man to walk the earth looked at him, even if something in him was ringing like a tuning fork in a thunderstorm.

He fixed her with his most unamused stare, then leaned across the counter and tried to ignore the gaze he could still, very palpably, feel on his back. “You still got rooms?”

“Sure do,” Ellen said. Her eyes flicked up over Dean’s shoulder to the man Dean was 100% not fighting the urge to turn around to look at. “How long’re you planning to stay for?”

“My car’s broken down just down the road.” No harm in being honest when he genuinely needed help, except he _knew_ that gorgeous man was listening in. “As long as it takes it to get fixed.”

“Ah, well, Bobby’s right next door. I’ll give him word next morning, al’right?”

“Thanks,” he muttered. Bobby... Had he heard the name before?

He translated as she continued to speak: It’s a dick-ripping amount per night. Let me just tell you about all the flaws in the rooms. The window’s a little misaligned so you’ll hear the wind come whistling through, there’s not a lot of hot water, we don’t give free soap...

Didn’t know how long the repairs would take, so he paid for two night’s worth before deciding on anything else.

“Hey, lady, aren’t you supposed to be _selling_ me this place?” he cut through her tirade after he had the keys in hand and she started up again.

“Oh, no,” she said, with that fucking smile. “I already know you’ll stay. I’m just giving you a realistic rundown.”

“Well aren’t I damn grateful,” Dean grunted, waving a hand at her as he slid from the stool. To his disappointm— no. As _expected,_ the inn was empty now, the man gone. Well, shit. See if he cared. Dean was gonna go to the room upstairs, redo the wrapping around his head, try to forget the memory of impossible hazel eyes, and crash.

“His name’s Sam, by the way.” His head snapped up so fast as the name slotted into place like a lock and key. Sam. _Yes._ It melted, unsaid, on his tongue like honey.

Usually Dean didn’t give out his name. He used Dane, or Duke, or Dave, or whatever, but if Sam ( _Sam. God, yes,)_ would feel the same sense of... sense like the performer had just hit all notes right, nailed the phrases and followed the surge of song as how it was _supposed to be,_ Dean sure as hell wasn’t gonna deny him that.

Was he? Fuck. Dean had to have _some_ sense of preservation.

“Dane,” he said. “Dane Smith.”

“Right,” Ellen said. Then Dean walked up the stairs, up the landing, up more stairs, down the hallway to the room he was in, set up salt lines, and went right the fuck to sleep.

He woke at the asscrack of dawn, where the sun was painting the world red and... that metaphor was stupid, no one wanted to think about bleeding asses. Brand new morning called for brand new beginnings, but neither the radio nor his cellphone worked, so instead, he washed his face out, took a look at where blood had crusted in his hair, then blearily made his way down the stairs.

Ellen was already awake and talking to some man over the counter. In a split-second instant, he knew. That was ‘Bobby’. Try as he could to say, yeah, it was all hunter’s intuition, intuition didn’t usually get you this fucking far.

Maybe he really was swirling in some supernatural illusion. Maybe he’d gotten his memory wiped.

They spotted him standing on the landing and called him over for introductions. Yeah yeah yeah, this is Dean, who is an ... American _accountant_ who’d received a distress call from his crazy hermit cousin Andre and was driving out into the wilderness for that very reason. Yes, Dean’s very worried for him, really wants to get on his way, all that stuff. Bobby wanted to take him out for breakfast first, talk about the car, discuss pay, and fair enough, Dean was game — in about _ten minutes,_ because he still smelled like shit because he’d skipped that long-overdue shower. Christ, how’d they chat with him for so long without complaining about the smell?

When he pushed open the door to his room again, he’d barely glimpsed a silhouette crouched over his duffel before instinct kicked in and he lunged into motion, whipping his gun from its holster and crashing into the snooping motherfucker who’d decided to slide their greasy hands into his _locked_ fucking room when he was gone, and jesus _ow,_ something just smashed into his teeth–

The face that stared back at him while he pressed a barrel against their throat was distinctly familiar.

“I’m so sorry.” A litany fell from Sam’s lips. Dean had him pinned to the floor. “I’m sorry, I just. I didn’t mean to—”

“You better have one damn good explanation for this,” Dean growled back. That solved how he got through the locked door, though picking locks was child’s play anyway. He glanced up at the duffel; still zipped shut. Good.

“I had to know who you were,” the man said. Irritatingly enough, in this light where his eyes weren’t so deep set, where all his sculpted lines smoothed out into an expression heartbreakingly earnest, Dean couldn’t suppress an irrational urge to trust him. Whatever mischievous capacity Dean thought Sam had, it wasn’t present here.

He thumbed the safety back on and shoved his gun away. “Yeah? You do this on the regular whenever a stranger comes into the inn?” He wiped at his mouth and it came away bloody. The hell? The culprit, an amulet, lay on Sam’s chest: a head with bull horns. Stupid thing.

“No,” Sam said, dragging Dean’s attention back to him. He looked at Dean as though he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “It’s only you.”

Dean _may or may not_ have been wearing the same expression. He couldn’t help but let his gaze trace the soft planes of Sam’s face, drinking him in fervently. Everything about him was perfect, and not in the wow, supermodel way, but in the... (remember looking over when we were driving, and he was asleep against the window but the sunlight hit just right and all Dean could see was the dip there by his cheek, the line of his jaw, the contour of his beauty–) everything-was-where-everything-should’ve-been way, if Dean’s mind graced him with familiar angles and shapes.

The solid and warm weight beneath him relaxed. Sam’s smile was small, but it was the fucking sun coming out from behind the clouds, complete with dimples and all. Dean reeled in the familiarity of it, but also the urge to lean down and trace that stupid smile with his own lips.

“The fuck’re you smiling at.” He didn’t sound half as intimidating as he’d wanted to, and the asshole beneath him caught on.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” the dumb shit said. His hands came up to rest Dean’s arms in some huge display of tactile earnesty. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, _watch me._ ” He gestured at the duffel. “You touch that bag again and you lose your fingers. You hear me?”

He just got that dumb perfect smile in reply. Dean wished he could be actually irritated, but it all seemed to slide off Sam like melted butter. Sam needed to stop smiling as though Dean was some kind of saint. For all Sam knew, Dean was a _stranger_ , no matter what ringing in his head was trying to tell him otherwise. And if Sam had peeked into the duffel and put together that Dean was a hunter, well, he’d be gushing a lot more.

He directed a scowl at the man beneath him. More specifically, towards that smile that was really starting to wear his edge of propriety. Then he gave a huff, heaved the duffel up onto his shoulder, and disappeared into the bathroom. As _if_ he was going to leave the bag outta his sight now.

When he exited, skin still wet, Sam was gone.

The curtains fluttered gently against the windowsill. The rest of the town was awake now, and chatter drifted up from the streets.

Dean tried not to feel disappointed.

Then he redid the lock to his room and jimmied it way out of shape. No way Sam would be able to get in again.

After breakfast, Bobby drove Dean out to the scene of his ruined car. The engine was shot, Dean said. Bobby agreed, then said a good few other bits were starting to fall apart. Do you care about the dents?

Not at all, Dean replied, and then Bobby said this’d be a right ol’ quick job. He could swap the engine out in a few hours; the rest would be a day or so’s work. Dean could be gone by next morning.

Dean warred with relief. Good to know he’d be back on track with the hunt and out of this town soon.

In the afternoon, the windows of the inn were flung wide and the place was open to the breeze. Sam was chatting to patrons, but as soon as Dean stepped into threshold, his attention snapped up lightning quick.

The moment before he said it, Dean knew precisely what word was going to come from his mouth and the exact enunciation of it. “Dane!” Sam called. Something in Dean quivered unhappily. It was wrong. He wanted to hear Sam call his real name. “Can I take you out for lunch?”

The words, “That’d be fucking fantastic,” were spilling from his lips _way_ before his mind had time to reel them in. What the fuck, Dean? But they were definitely worth the way Sam’s face brightened up and his huge smile made a reappearance.

“Okay, just give me a minute!”

It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do. Dean flopped down on the couch in front of the fireplace, though it wasn’t lit. He doubted there’d be any hunts to be had. They were probably all... grizzly bear attacks. Moose tramplings.

He lolled his head back, let the noise wash over him. There were snippets of conversation weaving everywhere. Swirled around him like threads. Two ladies walking by outside discussing their favourite pastries, a dog barking and a man telling it to settle, someone discussing the state of their cow, Sam’s warm reassuring tone that sunk into Dean’s bones and warmed him from inside out.

He’d never met someone who made him feel like this. It wasn’t some sort of incubus wildfire attraction for sex. There was nothing dark and seductive about it. It was... the slip-slide liquid gold of souls that radiated warmth as vividly as the sun and the purr of the Impala did of home.  

Sam’s approach came as no surprise to him. Neither did the large hand that rested on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, leaning down close, voice lowered for only the two of them. “Can I take you out to see the town? We can look for somewhere you’d like to eat.”

“This a date, Sammy?” Dean tipped his head back to search Sam’s. The sun shining through the windows was brilliant, edged Sam’s hair and face in the liquid gold Dean’d been thinking of. He’d just pulled the name outta nowhere. But it was right. It was right.

“Maybe.” Sam smiled.

Slowly, seeking permission, Dean raised his hand up to bury his fingers in Sam’s hair. The soft tufts parted as he raked his hand through.

“If it is, I wouldn’t mind one bit.” He was flirting _shamelessly._ He usually turned up this sort of charm for the chicks, for the one night stands, and that stuck him like a discordant chord. Sam wasn’t one night stand material. He was... whatever he was, wasn’t that.

With regret, his hand left Sam’s hair, and he stood. “Let’s hit the streets, Sammyboy.”

That smile was becoming a lot less irritating and a whole lot more heart-wrenching.

When they stepped out, Dean overheard a distressed _Timmy’s missing_ and his mind kicked in. Hunter. Job. Sam was relaying like, the place’s history, while Dean tuned him out.

 _Oh my god, did you hear? He’s still missing! Tabitha says he keeps running off during Sunday service. I just don’t understand. He_ **_loves_ ** _God._

“You got a church?” Dean asked.

Sam blinked, halfway through a tangent about Bobby’s garage, lips still parted. _Fuck._ Dean, _job._ “Sure, I’ll show you.” Sam said. “It’s just down the road here. Next to the primary, you know? I mean, I’m not exactly religious, but there’s nothing wrong with believing in God–”

“You’re not?” That was... interesting. Not necessarily a bad thing, not necessarily good. Did Sam have a unique view on demons and monsters and hunting, too?

“I’m just. Too much of a science person, you know?” Sam’s shoes scuffed the street. “I guess you could say all the supernatural’s outside the laws of our understanding or whatever and I definitely know _they’re_ real, but even that’s changing.”

Oh yeah, Dean had heard about those. He hadn’t really paid much attention. Something about considering demons as constructed of particles with wave-like properties, something about gravity, and that hell and heaven were all on the same plane as earth except processing at a much faster rate of time.

“The things God’s apparently done... Okay, like, let’sthink about Noah’s Ark. First of all, the Ark would’ve been way advanced for its time in marine transport. So how come there were no descendants of it? Did no one, _no one_ who saw that ark think — let me imitate its structural integrity, frame design, and everything else? Let me imitate its impossible buoyancy and magical wood that surpasses the upper bound of wooden marine structures? Do you ever wonder why we use _steel_ for boats now?

“Secondly, how the earth was it designed for all those different animals? Birds need different perch diameters, hard flooring will injure hooves, soft flooring can damage ankles, how about _termites?_ Eighty-one years in the making, and they managed to preserve all the wood and conditions from the elements when they were building it? We can’t even protect wood _now_ . Or _‘coated in pitch’_? Tar didn’t even exist at the time! Oil and tar was allegedly formed after the flood compressed all of the organic matter in the earth!”

“— Woah, Sam,” Dean said, “hold your horses, I—”

“I can’t even begin on the animals and the _genetics_!” Passersby were giving Sam a wide berth, now. He looked genuinely frustrated.

“—Didn’t need the whole spiel, Sam,” Dean said.

“Sorry.” Sam’s eyebrows pulled the whole ‘I’m so very sad and adorably miserable’ act. “It’s not that I’m an atheist, Dane. I just... don’t believe the human sources; God, if he is real, isn’t gonna be like how we say he is, and I don’t want to go to church to pray to the God that we’ve twisted.”

Sam did make a bit of a fair point, but Dean had angelic friends and demonic enemies, so. His view on religion was probably pretty damn different.

Speaking of, the church was right ahead. It was relatively small, a lonely building sitting in the fields with a cross standing proudly in the sun. A graveyard stretched out back.

“You have a _graveyard_ next to your primary?”

Sam’s smile was cheeky. “Helps braven up the kids.”

“There are some seriously screwed up parents here,” Dean said as they entered through the doors. One or two church goers were paying their respects, heads bowed as light filtered in through the stained glass windows. One woman was right at the altar, muttering. “Please, please, Timmy, Timmy... Oh! Samuel!” She stood on shaky legs and rushed over to Sam, clutching at his shirt. “You found him last time— please, oh, won’t you find him again?”

“I’ll try, Tabitha,” Sam said. She started thanking him desperately, then went back to praying.

There was a pretty simple deduction going on here. Kid goes missing. Primary school is right next to graveyard. _Or_ he could’ve just been eaten by a fucking bear, as suddenly as that deer had jumped out in front of Dean’s car. But these parents wouldn’t just let their kids play out where the wild things (bears) are, right?

“Where’d you find him last time?” Dean asked.

“Just in the bush around the primary’s field.” Sam sighed, shoulders slumping. “Sorry to have to drag you into this.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean grinned. “A manhunt’s pretty exciting.”

Bush lined the perimeter of the primary school’s field. It served to divide the high school and the primary, and, as Dean surveyed the trees critically, probably didn’t contain any bears. An hour later of trudging through the undergrowth and calling for some little shit called Timmy, Sam gave a shout because there he’d found the boy, trembling in a hollow tree.

Dean was greeted with little Timmy crying all over Sam’s shoulder. There were snot and tears everywhere, urk. But Sam was making soothing noises and patting the boy’s head, and Dean found _Sam_ too cute to complain about it.

“She’s–” Timmy blabbered, trying to hide his dirt-covered hands. “So scary. She’s so scary. So scary.”

“Who?” Sam asked. They started to cross the field again, back to the church where Timmy’s mother was probably still praying.

“Jeanne,” Timmy said through a bubble of snot. Dean pulled a face. Sam shot him a glare. “She says she wants to _hurt_ me _!_ ”

“You sure he ain’t getting abused?” Dean said. The boy’s fingers weren’t just covered in dirt. They were _bleeding._

“There’s no one in this town called Jeanne,” Sam replied. “She died like, ten years ago or something. Jeanne’s Timmy’s imaginary friend. He talks about her all the time.”

Suddenly, everything made brutal, brutal sense. “Okay,” Dean said. “Well, I don’t really want to stand around watching Timmy’s mom cry into your shoulder.” Sam’s face fell — did he really think Dean was going to leave? “I’ll wait around in the graveyard.”

“Morbid.”

“Hey, it makes me brave, right?” He flashed Sam a smirk and then went to the gates of the graveyard while Sam took a longer detour around the front of the church. The graveyard was... like every other graveyard, really. A few old flowers here and there, and rows of headstones slowly eaten away by moss. The trees even looked depressed, drooping as they muttered with the wind.

Jeanne, Jeanne, Je _anne!_ Wait, no, that was a death thirty years ago. Not right.

He always carried salt and a lighter on him, because ghosts were that prevalent, and there were shovels resting against the back wall of the church. Guess the people in this town were nice enough not to steal from the dead. And prepared enough to be digging a grave at any time. 

There were countless Toms and Brads and Laurens, and at one point, unerringly enough, a Dean. He stopped at that one a little longer. Dean Smith.

A little shiver ran down his spine at the coincidence.

The graveyard stretched in the shadow of the church. Sometimes the names were coated over by green and he had to pick at the stones. He was nearly through the final rows when Sam announced his presence with loud steps.

“Really bad date,” Dean said, looking up. Fuck. Why did Sam have to be back so early? He’d come back later, then, to deal with the spirit.

Wait, had someone already dug up that grave over there? The dirt looked–

“Sorry.” Sam replied with what sounded like a grimace. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Oh?” Dean eyed him, grin growing. He wiped the moss clinging to his fingers on one of the headstones.

“I’ll cook you dinner.” Sam was holding his head defiantly high and fighting a blush. “It’s my primary wooing tactic, really.”

“Well, Sam,” he said, tongue curling over the name, voice dripping, “you should see what _I’ll_ do to ‘woo’ you. Promise, when you see it, you’ll fall in l–”

The sun went out.

The ghost's scream smashed in with enough force to send Sam stumbling. She towered over the cracked headstones, tear streaks vivid and blazing with blood. Inhumane, her fingers were nailed to the earth, tearing the dirt like plows as she crashed forwards. A mouth gaped wide, gnashing for Sam.

But Dean’s gunshot drowned her out. Sunk right between her eyes.

She scattered in the wind. The world roared. The headstone had her name, the wood of the coffin gleaming with a little boy’s blood. Wind stirred in the graveyard, trees creaking forwards, from the ground she began to rise again. Dean threw open the coffin. _Clink,_ his lighter went. Sam’s hand was scrabbling for a shovel. She shot up in a rush, fury etched into every line of her face and screaming, _your God is dead!_ and his muscles seized. A shovel wouldn’t do anything, he couldn’t, couldn’t–

Like a shattering light bulb, she fell to the ground as ash and dissipated like mist.

But the roar was still there, the roar of his blood rushing in his ears, and the roar of the inferno behind Dean. Dean stood there still as death while the flames rushed up behind him and painted him more strikingly than any brush could’ve. Firelight licked his skin, burnished him bronze, but the heat wouldn’t touch him, no, Sam knew: no element would dare scorch Dean.

The fire fell away and the graveyard was silent and cold once more.

“You’re a hunter.” The metal was cold against Sam's hand. A hunter. Hunter, hunter, hunter, the word echoed, won’t ever take you with him. Sam must've understood now.

The dirt and gravel crunched under Dean’s shoes. “What’d I been saying?” His voice was hollow, sour. “That’s right–”

He wouldn’t be able to tell Sam his name was Dean, now. Dean Winchester the hunter. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Didn’t.

“–You’ll fall in love.”

Sam had seen a total lunar eclipse only once, when he was young and still enraptured by a world he couldn’t reach. Here... he had seen one again, and it was even more blinding than he'd remembered it to be.

Dean left through the squealing back door of the church, looking so much like the sky had come crashing down on his shoulders that Sam scrambled to follow him. “Wait!” he said. “Wait, Dane, wait!”

The door slammed.

Inside, it was still bright, the other churchgoers gone, and the light rained down in colours across Dean, rippled across his shoulders and his back. Sam half-stumbled down the aisles. “Wait, Dane, please, I still–” he closed his hand around Dean’s arm, knew that if Dean hadn’t wanted him to, he could’ve easily jerked away, “let me take you out for lunch.”

“Sam,” Dean said. Statues lined the walls. Jesus. Joseph. Mary. Bernard. There they stood, eternally blessing, immortalised in time. “There are all sorts of saints in this world.” His lips curled in some bitter private joke. “Don’t mistake me for one of them.”

Silence followed them like a third interloper as Dean was lead into some sort of diner with a huge _Georgie’s Pie_ sign outside. Sam tentatively put a big ol’ boot into its backside.

“So what’s it like?” Sam asked, once they’d settled down with fucking _fantastic_ pies.

Dean wasn’t sour because he thought Sam would go blabbing his pretty mouth to the town. He wasn’t sour because he thought Sam would compromise his safety. He was damn right upset because he’d _missed his chance_ of just pretending he was any other person, of pretending he could pick up this man who was right for him and whisking him away.

Because they weren’t Romeo and Juliet, here, but it was easy to forget when you were just two equally enraptured strangers. Dean’s occupation shed light onto things. There was no life for Sam beside Dean, not in the hunting world. Sam wasn’t raised for that type of shit. He wasn’t... Dean wouldn’t let him run his way into harm.

Besides, they’d only just fucking met. Jesus Christ. Dean didn’t have any right to indulge in stupid decisions and uproot Sam from his home for a one-day love.

“Different for everybody,” Dean replied, “but always a fulltime job. Sorta like second nature.”

“I figured,” Sam said. “The way you just...” He gestured with his hand. “Incredible.”

“We’re just people.” He took a huge bite of the pie to emphasise his point. Chewed.

“There was this demon takedown last month in North Carolina. You probably know about it. It’s amazing what you guys do.”

“Yeah yeah, that’s what everyone says. Listen, it’s not fun, it’s not horrible. It’s none of that.” Dean said. That hunt had been particularly unpleasant, but he wasn’t going to tell Sam that. “Trust me. It’s just how things _are_ for us. We don’t get to know the world differently. Don’t miss it.”

‘Trust me.’ Yeah. Real stupid.

Sam beamed at him and propped his chin up on his hand.

“What?” Dean hunched defensively over his food. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that smile. The hell was Sam smilin’ at him for?

“That’s exactly what’s brilliant about you.” Dean didn’t deserve that smile in any world. “You–”

“Oh no, no no no, no chick flick moments, Sam. I’m putting up some strict rules here. _Don’t_ get all sappy on me.”

Sam beamed wider as if Dean had said something particularly endearing. Why couldn’t the idiot just stop looking so happy? It made Dean want to grin back, which was so not happening.

He scarfed down the pie. Sam was slowly eating fries, one by one, getting his fingers all salty and greasy. Dean wanted to lick them.

“I wanted to be a lawyer, you know.” Sam said, watching Dean get mince on his lips.

“Mhmm,” Dean hummed, taking another huge bite.

“But going to the average universities isn’t exactly worth it, and I wasn’t good enough to get a full ride to Stanford.” He said it so glibly, with that fucking smile, sitting there like any other man on the street.

Dean nearly choked. “The fuck, dude.” People didn’t just _do_ that.

“I know,” Sam said mournfully as if Dean had said ‘oh, what a pity’, and not spouted an obscenity. “So I decided to stay here, where my family’s always been. I figured I wanted to study like... set theory. I don’t actually need a lab for that.”

“Where the hell has this genius of yours been hiding?” Dean scowled. “ _Stanford,_ buddy.”

“I’m not actually that smart.” Sam ducked his head. “Admissions must’ve taken pity on me.”

Then Dean’s mouth did that dumb ‘I don’t think before I speak’ thing. “I can pull a few strings to get you in.”

“What?” Sam said. “No way! You– I’d be pretty old to be there, now, and I can’t just use you like that.”

Dean’s mouth to brain filter didn’t work in Sam’s presence. “Just think about it. I’m offering, all cards on the table, and think quick, because I’m gone tomorrow.”

Blood drained out of Sam’s face. “You’re–”

“–leaving tomorrow. Yep.” Dean suddenly wished he had some drink with him, or _something,_ goddammit. Not just... breaking the news to Sam in this shitty diner in this shitty town. Watching terror spread across that achingly familiar face.

He was gonna be gone. They were going to be gone.

Fuck it. Dean went for it, threw himself bodily over the edge, inelegant as you please.

He leaned forwards, let his hand slide over Sam’s, until they were a breath apart and tilted his head in a hint of a kiss. “Not long left, Sammy.” He wanted to. Wanted to lean in and close the gap. “So let’s make good use of it.”

Soon as they stumbled into the house, Dean had his hands all over Sam. “Sam, Sam, Sam,” he breathed, trailing kisses all over Sam’s jaw and running his hands under Sam’s shirt.

Sam was equally enthralled, arching into Dean’s touch and gasping a disgusting, wrong name. “Please,” he groaned, rutting up against Dean’s thigh, cocky a heady outline. “Ah!”

Dean dropped to his knees and had Sam right there in the doorway, coming hot and heavy on his tongue.

“Dane–” Sam’s cried out as he came, and Dean’s heart was fucking _gone._ ‘Dane’. Yeah right. What a stupid fucking idiotic name. He felt disgusting. Like a liar, like a thief. Like he was stealing something good from Sam and keeping every piece.

As he kissed him again, he murmured, “C’mon, Sammy, take me to the bedroom.”

They collapsed into bed, the room warm with the afternoon, shedding the clothes they could. Dean wanted every inch. He wanted to run his hands along each sculpted muscle, so he did. He wanted to kiss Sam until he was heady and breathless, so he did. He wanted to taste every inch of Sam (like he knew it all already, like he’d been to every corner of this body and bandaged it up, raised him so carefully, loved him more than anything), so he did.

He wanted to keep Sam, but he couldn’t. So he tried.

Dean bottomed first, tossing away the condom with a sound of disgust and letting Sam sink into him the way he wanted, skin to skin, gasping and breathless all the way. No one else had ever made sex feel like this. No one else would. He wanted it all, everything, before it was ripped from him. He clung to Sam, slick skin sliding between them, dick riding the firmness of Sam.

“Sam,” he gasped, “ah! Sam, Sam!” hands scrabbling uselessly against Sam’s wide back. He needed to be closer. Needed to feel Sam’s heart pounding in time with his, feel Sam’s breath and his huge hands and the curve of his lips and the beautiful line of his jaw and the truth in his eyes, because Dean had been missing it all his life, a gaping hole inside. “Please, please please please, need you, love you, please, Sam!”

“Dean!” Sam cried, and then at the sound of his name, his _real name,_ so right like sweetness bursting on his tongue, Dean was gone, coming all over their chests, kissing Sam like a dying man again and again, and continued to do so throughout the night.

It was like waking to a scene of crime. The sheets were everywhere and Sam lay there with hickeys littering his body. The tube of lube was still open and their clothing was scattered along the carpet.

Dean stooped down to pull on his shirt and jacket, wincing. The crime, though, wasn’t any of that. The crime was leaving. He’d done this hundreds of times. Getting up the morning after and getting out, but this time guilt was thick on his tongue.

Leaving. Leaving. Leaving.

Fuck.

He dug his phone out from a pocket, tried to call John, thought for a wild moment of begging to take Sam with him. This man he’d met for a day and fucked for a day. But _this number does not exist_ and he gave up.

He could wait for Sam to wake and convince him to follow Dean. Follow Dean into the hunting lifestyle, this man who wants to be a _lawyer,_ for fuck’s sake. Wants to go to Stanford. Chose to stay here in this crumby town and this _wasn’t a fucking romance novel_. There was no perfect stranger, there was no Romeo, there was no love at first sight and there was no everlasting love and no decisions to let the heat of the moment take someone away from their home.

Dean was finding it a damn hard time telling himself it wasn’t, though.

Wrote his number on a tissue and left it on the bedside table, though he couldn’t just leave a _number._ That was– It wasn’t enough. He looked around. Needed to give something. Needed to take something, too, to remind himself it wasn’t all just a fever-ridden dream.

His eyes fell onto the stupid amulet that’d clocked him in the mouth when he first tackled Sam. That’d do fine. Now Dean...

He turned up at Bobby’s minus one gun. It had his name carved into the handle, so Sam would know it all. Dean never parted with his weapons, but this time, he _was_ leaving more than a weapon behind.

Bobby was there, all right, and so was the piece of shit car. Dean had checked out at The Roadhouse already. He would come back, he told himself. He’d get more time. But something in him told him _it’ll be a long while, Dean._

“Hey, Dane,” Bobby said, “well aren’t you up early?” His eyes drifted to Dean’s sex-marked neck. “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing, boy.”

Dean drifted past like a ghost on its last legs, up to the car. Wrenched the passenger door open and paused there. “Bobby,” he said, world-weary. “Ever feel like you know someone you’ve never met before?”

The man looked at him closely, frown growing, and said, “You took his amulet.”

Dean said nothing. The bull-horned head hung heavy around his neck.

“Good,” Bobby replied. “He’ll have something to look for.”

Dean just tossed the duffel into the seat and then slammed the door shut. Made his way to the other side of the car. There was nothing to say.

“You know, Dane,” Bobby said, “We get strange folk here all the time. They come and go. We don’t ask questions, but they talk about all sorts of things. Things that can’t be happening, things that make no sense, and sometimes different people with the same face come twice.” He leaned against the hood of the car. “You aren't the first Dane, Duke, or even fucking Daniel to come here. But you’re the only one he’s stopped to even _look_ at.”

Dean’s mouth went dry.

“So don’t you damn worry.” Bobby’s face crinkled into a smile. “Because he ain’t studying number theory. He’ll find you, all right, feel it right here in my bones — just like how I knew the instant you stepped into this town that you were the _right_ one.”

“Bobby,” Dean said, because he couldn’t say anything else, but it was clawing in his chest. The man stepped back, patting the roof of the car. "I'm Dean.  _Dean._ "

There was a smile. “Go.” Bobby turned his head to the rising sun. “Go on, Dean. No time for regrets. Didya think anything, even a universe, could stop him? No. He’ll find you.”

Ellen stepped out of the inn too, just as he was pulling out. She waved and smiled, so broadly, as if he wouldn’t be leaving forever and never coming back. 

He kept his eyes on the road the whole way, but couldn’t help pulling into Sam’s street, looking at the windows that were still curtain-drawn, wondering if Sam’d gotten up yet, was missing Dean already. Dean knew that he did. If he were Sam, he would. He would tear down the sun to come back and find Sam. 

Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and drove until all the houses were left behind and his radio was working again, “This is Dean.” He fought not to let his voice tremble. The smatterings of trees sprouted up on both sides, like he was emerging from a dream and they were welcoming him home. “I’m back on the road.”

“Copy that,” his father replied.

When he glanced up into the rear mirror, the town was gone. In its place was empty grassland, swaying in the breeze. But the amulet still lay, carrying the weight of a world, catching the sunlight, against his chest. And it told him all he needed to know. 


	2. Epilogue

Dean lost the amulet on Easter that year. He had been wrangling a huge mutant version of the bunny, his head between its jaws, when a tooth snagged the bull-horned head and it was swallowed down whole. Dean had never killed anything so quickly. He gutted the rabbit until he was splashed with its blood and had laid out its intestines and only breathed when he spotted the golden gleam shining through the chyme.

He lost the amulet again when he was fleeing a werewolf pack in Carolina. It'd been storming, the rain had carried it far, and he spent three entire nights afterwards scouring the woods for the brass amulet hiding in the dirt. He'd found it at the end, and there weren't tears running down his face. That was the rain.

Chasing a selkie in the blistery cold, Dean lost it again when he leapt into a river and the current ripped the amulet from around his neck. He had thrown the hunt entirely away. He had gotten hypothermia. He had gotten scolded. He’d gotten red raw fingers from scrabbling the bottom of the river; ice-daggered water in his lungs; bedridden for days; half-drowned by the selkie — everything had been a blur of bubbles and desperate rabid panic; but he gotten _it_ , clutched desperately between his fingers, and that was all that really mattered.  

Dean lost the amulet countless times, but he always got it back. Because he'd hold onto it with every string of his life.

  

Winchester tradition dictated that, on Christmas day, the family pulled into any old house and tried to cook up a huge lavish feast. Emphasis on _try,_ because, invariably, someone burnt something and they all had to pile into the Impala and eat out at the nearest diner.

John in the kitchen was a train-wreck waiting to happen, and it happened every year. Dean was two steps ahead and already had a phone to his ear. “Do you have a specials menu? Dish of the day?”

“This is Hell Pizza. We sell pizza,” the voice said from the speakers.

“Pizza of the day?”

“Hawaiian: cheese and tomato base, ham-”

“Get me four of those.” Chicken was hissing dangerously one of the pans.

“Would you like any sides? We have-”

“No, just pizza.”

“... All right. Name?”

“Dean Smith.” He tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, making his way around the kitchen. Half the things on the counter were food, the other half, guns and weapons. “Can you deliver to... 21, Downing Street?”

“Yes. Thank you for ordering four large Hawaiian pizzas. Your order will arrive in about half an hour.”

Dean left the phone on the table and fingered his amulet absently. He’d been living the life of chastity after Sam. The first time someone slid up to him, skin sweaty from the heat of the club, he’d said, “You see this?” and brought the ugly thing up into the purple and pink flashing lights. “Means I’m _married_. The answer is no, lady. I ain’t spendin’ the night with you.”

Used that line a lot more over the course of four years.

John thought the thing was stupid, that Dean should’ve used his charm on the ladies. Mary thought it was sweet. Neither asked who it was from.

Once, a demon leered and said the word _Sam_ and then Dean saw red, tore it apart in a blood-frenzied haze before it could tell him that hundreds of years had passed for Sam, that Sam had failed, that Sam had forgotten him, that Sam had given up. His parents heard every word. They knew. They weren’t idiotic. But, fortunately, the Winchesters were fantastic at not talking about things.

Dean supposed he was the waiting damsel. At least he was a kickass damsel who beat the shit out of monsters, but who really cared? He'd be a damsel if it meant his prince was Sam.

 _Ding dong!_ the bell went cheerfully. John’s hand flashed out for a gun and splashed oil everywhere. Mary tried to control the extent of the damage. Dean carefully avoided the brand new slipping hazard on the floor and went to answer the door. That was _serious_ pizza service, man. Did they teleport here? Deserved all sorts of tips.

“If I knew you made pizzas at–” Whatever words were on his tongue froze and shattered, into glass. The Christmas air plucked them away and cradled them as seeds of crystal, smiled, as if to say _look what I can create_. _Something beautiful._  

“Hi, Dean,” Sam said. "Long time no see."

Light spilled like running water from the door into the blue and the black and the grey. There Sam stood in the golden halo, familiar smile on his lips, cheeks red from the cold, Dean's gun at his side, snow still clinging to his hair. His eyes were older now, but no less bright. They'd seen universes turning, seen stars, and had kept the sights.

“Hey, Sammy.” His words rose in mist. Carefully and quietly as though it could all shatter with a harsh touch. Hey, Sammy. I’ve been waiting a long while, but I didn’t mind. I would’ve waited forever. “Why don’t you come inside?” I love you.

He took Sam into the rectangle of sun with an arm around Sam's shoulders, pressed together from back to thigh — and what a familiar feeling it was, as though they had grown around each other to fit like twin shores: no matter where, no matter when, the sky and the sea and everything above and beneath would always fit between.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Fugue: a contrapuntal compositional technique in two or more voices, built on a musical theme that recurs frequently in different forms over the course of the composition.
> 
> Where the musical theme is their relationship.
> 
> —
> 
> am new to & thus scared of spn fandom, tbh.


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